


(we’re dying) in a smoke filled room

by sotakeabitofcalpol



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom
Genre: Dead Wilbur Soot, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Introspection, Smoking, it’s mostly Wilbur thinking and singing about L’Manberg, there are other character but they’re only mentioned, we in the afterlife lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:27:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29876313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sotakeabitofcalpol/pseuds/sotakeabitofcalpol
Summary: There are no words to describe what hell feels like. It would drive him mad, if he weren’t already however many betrayals past insane.aka: Wilbur’s thoughts on the past, present and how to describe Hell
Kudos: 5





	(we’re dying) in a smoke filled room

**Author's Note:**

> ok this is really short but I’m falling asleep as I post this so have a thing

Hell is...no, wait.

The afterlife is...

This place is... _fuck_

There are no words to describe what hell feels like. It would drive him mad, if he weren’t already however many betrayals past insane.

There are no words, and it drives him mad, because he’s finally got the time to write, to sing like he used to, to feel the world through dodgy harmonics and the way chords and lyrics weave and jolt, and he can only write about the past he so desperately tries to forget.

He lights up a cigarette, battered lighter that carried him through two wars, from a pack that never seems to run out, same way Schlatt never runs out of bottles. He’d learnt early on that whatever hell is, it wouldn’t let him leave the cigarette burning down to his fingertips like he’d always done in Pogtopia. It catches, and he flicks the zippo shut as the glow lights up the darkness that pierces his skull like a constant firework.

His guitar sits beside him, almost accusing in its scratched and dented form. He’s written songs, about Fundy and Tommy and Tubbo and Eret, about L’Manberg’s ‘glory days’, about the way descending into insanity felt. Schlatt’s input and Tubbo’s presidency spawned a song on the curse on the city’s leaders. Niki and Fundy and Jack’s ‘betrayals’ spawned a song about building on cracked foundations. He doesn’t like to think about the past, or the present in the world he left behind, but it’s better than the hollowness this place holds even as it constantly presses down on his chest.

Today, or whatever day it is now, he’s choosing to try and carry on his current pet project; an exploration into the way that time moves in this place, the way that Jack might’ve gotten out. He hadn’t been here long, hadn’t seen him watching, just clutched at the burn scars and almost-fatal stab wound from Techno’s sword and started arguing with whatever runs this place. He’d almost gone over, to see if he was ok; they’d been friends, once. Maybe they still are. They’d worn the same uniform once. Eret wore the same uniform once. Maybe he never had the chance to push Jack away with his insanity, maybe he doesn’t even know, is just aware that he blew the city up. It was Jack’s home he blew up. Jack doesn’t look like he’s in the mood for forgiveness.

He doesn’t go over, in the end, and Jack vanishes five minutes of muttered words later.

He’s trying to work out how to talk to the voice Jack had heard, to talk to anyone but Mexican Dream and Schlatt for a bit when the latter stumbles in and onto his bed, almost blackout drunk.

“Sing something.”

“No.”

“You doin homework or some shit?”

“I’m working.”

“Sing, theatre bitchboy.”

“Do it yourself, alchie.”

“Fuckface.”

“Wanker.”

He goes and grabs his guitar anyway. Not like he doesn’t have eternity to work of bending the rules of this place to for him, and Schlatt is almost a friend now, or at least something closer to that than an enemy. The frets feel natural under worn down fingertips, from hours of music and fighting and writing. Tommy had always joked that he had old man fingers. Tubbo had always pointed out that having calluses meant hard work, not necessary age. God he misses them

_Watch that old fire as it flickers and dies_  
_That once blessed the city at the cost of our lives_  
_It shone for the friends and it lived in her branches_  
_I'll tend to the flame; you can worship the ashes_

“Sentimental bastard. Write some songs about women or some shit.”

He ignores him. Maybe one day he’ll give in and write about Sally, but not today.

_Gather your children and raise them in war_  
_Then blame them when peace never lasts anymore_  
_The idea that they built on, it no longer matters_  
_Call them the flame; leave them watching the ashes_

_Do you feel heavy? Your eyes drop with grief_  
_The line between sane and insanity’s brief_  
_Watch as it festers and infects the masses_  
_Leave the flame ignored and you’ll be left with ashes_

Schlatt is silent in the way that means he’s not quite out cold yet, that he’s thinking. No matter their history, Wilbur has never asked, and even if he did, he isn’t sure Schlatt would tell.

_Show me a leader I’ll show you a traitor_  
_Set peace aflame, blow the town to a crater_  
_On rotten foundations, they’ll rebuild as time passes_  
_I'll set the flame; leave me among the ashes_

_Cherish the fruit as your soldiers it feeds_  
_Water with battle and harvest it’s seed:_  
_Claim that the tree is of peace as you plant it_  
_Set it aflame; it’ll leave only ashes_

Niki did the right thing, in the end, amongst every wrong choice everybody has ever made, delivering the coup-de-grace. It’s almost fitting that their lighters were twins, from the same pack; all L’Manberg’s soldiers carried the same lighters, but he’d lost his in the final control room, taken it for luck, and when he bought them for the new citizens, he’d taken from the same pack as Niki.

He hates that he understands what’s happening to her now, the way paranoia creeps in around your throat and chokes you, but there’s nothing he can really do, is there?

_What will we do when our home is razed low_  
_And foe turns to friend and a friend to a foe?_  
_Our loyalty does no good as time passes_  
_I'll tend to the flame; you can worship the ashes_

He looks back at where Schlatt is, and he’s finally conked out, sprawled across the bed. He wasn’t planning on sleeping anyway. This place hasn’t made it any easier for him.

Wilbur places the guitar back down with care, turns back to his desk. Even if he doesn’t want to escape...well, knowledge is power, isn’t it?

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to anyone who read this mess, it’s like three am but I have Thoughts tm.
> 
> I wrote Wilbur’s song, and it’s supposed to be sung to the tune of ‘Ashes’ by the Longest Johns but I can’t sing so if you wanna have a go please do


End file.
